


Paediatric Ward

by Hobbitrocious



Series: The Ward (A Medical Story Assortment) [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ABDL, Age Play, Anal Play, Daddy John, Diapers, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Infantilism, Light BDSM, Little Sherlock, M/M, Medical Kink, Medical Procedures, Mental Regression, Oneshot, Sherlock Whump, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:07:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7295221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitrocious/pseuds/Hobbitrocious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock works himself sick after a case, and gets stuck in Little headspace because he's feeling so yucky. Luckily, his Daddy happens to be a doctor and has incredible patience when it comes to cranky baby boys.</p><p>This is a story about ADULTS (and only adults) roleplaying consensually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paediatric Ward

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Unsystematic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493742) by [Hobbitrocious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitrocious/pseuds/Hobbitrocious). 



> I still consider Unsystematic, from The Bruschetta Universe series, to be completely unrelated to BBC-verse, but the setting worked so well I had to borrow it for this. So, despite this one being fundamentally incompatible with Bruschetta-verse, this story could be read as a sequel if you choose. 
> 
> If you decide to pop over and read that one: Unsystematic is not an ABDL fic and is much more bondage-heavy and medfetty, with some pain-play. More specific warnings can be found in the tags above that story.
> 
> If you're just now seeing this one after having read Unsystematic: This is obviously more Infantilism-centric. There will be medfet, but it'll be cuddlier. And there will be diapers.
> 
> I usually don't mix ABDL with things I think of as kinky or sexualised, but this plot bunny had some damn sharp teeth.
> 
> TW: Parental figures acting in a professional medical capacity can sometimes be a tricky subject for me personally, so in case it's problematic for someone else too... Trigger Warning.
> 
> Also, this was a quick writing session done in two parts - more or less "hot off the press", and I haven't even beta-read it myself. Mostly my cat is to blame for misbehaving and running me ragged for the sake of rescuing certain breakables from his fuzzy clutches. I am seriously lacking on sleep right now. I may release a spiffed up version if I ever get around to revamping this.

It was meant to be a very tiny loft hidden behind the Lie of Leinster Gardens, secretly built atop the façade’s strong support struts to look outwardly no more than an elevated temporary work shed, but that plan was scrapped. Sherlock had bigger plans, and such a small place wouldn't satisfy. Not when he had other bolt-holes to choose from that he could more easily transform.

The particular building he did choose in the end was actually Irene Adler's, legally even, albeit under an alias. To the average passerby it was a derelict clinic on the outskirts of the city, shut down for so long that the facility wasn't worth updating to make fit for reuse.

Irene herself had already refitted a few of the rooms for her own purposes; for when she entertained particularly kinky, particularly _wealthy_ clients in this part of the world. Or, in Sherlock's case, for when she had a very good friend she felt she owed a favour.

He hadn't exactly asked her permission to remodel the rooms inside, but he'd noted upon his initial visit (the one when he and John had legitimately been invited) that there were many more rooms than Irene knew what to do with. The most she could get mad at him for was trespassing, and he was quite certain she wouldn't even bother over that.

So here he was now in the 'clinic's' recently assembled paediatric ward, reclined on a fleece-lined support wedge inside a sturdy, metallic medical cot, weak with an honest to goodness fever and being tended to by his wonderful Daddy who also happened to be a medical doctor.

Sherlock had sort of put the rooms together in vain, wishful thinking, expecting they'd never really be used. But, as luck would have it, he managed to work himself sick not long after the project was finished, and the gleam in John's eye when Sherlock coyly told him of the new playspace led to...

This. Sherlock regressed into Little headspace because he was feeling yucky, and John deciding that Irene's clinic, being so well supplied now, was better accommodation than 221B when it came to caring for an ill, Little Sherlock.

The side of the cot was down to allow John access to his patient. He had secretly been hoping to use the padded leather cuffs to bind Sherlock's wrists and ankles to the bars, but Sherlock was feeling so genuinely miserable that John would have felt guilty restricting his movement so much. Today was about comforting Sherlock and helping him to get better.

Though, John _had_ taken the liberty of locking Sherlock's hands into soft, pink scratch mitts when the Little detective repeatedly refused to stop rubbing at his itchy eyes.

Lying limply against the support wedge, which positioned him to help his sinuses to drain better, Sherlock looked especially frail. He was nude save for the mitts and a diaper, most of his body nearly as pale as the waterproof sheets beneath him despite the red, fevered flush that tinged his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

John gently applied a fresh damp cloth to Sherlock's forehead, whispering to him, "There you are, sweetheart."

John's main goal was to make Sherlock comfortable enough (or wait it out until he was exhausted enough) that he'd get eight consecutive hours or more of sleep, as lack of the same was largely to blame for taking him down. It was very likely that this illness would clear up very soon once Sherlock slept.

In case his condition didn't improve by the next day, they'd brought along a foul-smelling garlic concoction that Sherlock insisted on testing out in place of taking standard cold and flu medications. At any rate, John was glad the stuff was finally out of their pantry. He'd had to look at it grow cloudy and unappetising in its small glass jar beside the coffee tin for the past couple of months; not the most pleasing sight first thing in the morning.

Sherlock cracked his sensitive eyes open partway and blearily watched as John picked up the stethoscope for a listen to Sherlock's insides.

Daddy was wearing a white coat, too, which frightened Little Sherlock just a bit. But it was still Daddy, so Sherlock wasn't _too_ scared.

Daddy pressed the cold bell to Sherlock's chest, tutting an apology when a shiver immediately wracked the baby's bony shoulders.

He listened silently to Baby's heartbeat, then lungs. It was futile to ask Sherlock to take deep breaths or cough for the stethoscope, as he was too 'small' right now to follow directions.

At the risk of upsetting Sherlock's tranquil, infantile mindset, John slid the stethoscope lower to listen to his intestines.

Touching Sherlock's belly, or especially his navel, was arousing to him, and the sensation was sometimes enough to embarrass him into his Big headspace. He seemed to be feeling too drained this time, however, for it to make a difference.

John heard a faint, hollow-sounding rumble from Sherlock's tummy, then virtually nothing aside from his pulse. As usual, Sherlock's last case meant numerous skipped meals, and nothing was in his digestive system at the moment.

The only sign Sherlock felt at all uncomfortable with the touch was him sucking on the tip of one of his scratch mitts. If he was too upset, he would have begun squirming and trying to get away from John's stethoscope.

Rather than make Sherlock sit up to listen from the back, John finished and set the stethoscope aside.

In fact, John thought, with a heart monitor at their disposal, and Sherlock's lungs sounding okay from the front, there wasn't much need to take another listen so soon anyway. John rubbed his boy's chest soothingly before stepping away.

Sherlock barely stirred until he heard the stand with the electrocardiograph roll across the floor to the cot.

The baby frowned, confused, as John reached down and stuck a number of round electrode leads to his chest and one on his arm.

No sooner had John the monitor running and emitting a soft, steady, repetitive beeping in time with Sherlock's heart, he caught Sherlock trying to remove the electrodes, rubbing agitatedly at his chest with the clumsy mittens.

John quickly caught Sherlock's wrists. "No, no, no, baby!"

Sherlock whined up at him pathetically. He didn't like the strange things sticking to him, nor the robotic noise the box beside the cot made.

Across the room, the electric bottle warmer beeped too to signal its cycle was over.

Sighing, "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but you can't take those off," John positioned each of Sherlock's arms in turn near the sides of the cot and fastened the padded cuffs around slender wrists.

"Aumm... bwuh? Nnnnyih." Sherlock babbled, sounding befuddled if not berated.

John watched him try to reach for his chest again. The consternated look on Sherlock's face when he discovered how limited his range of movement was turned out to be John's only warning before Sherlock began to full out strop, keening and drumming his feet into the mattress. Baby pulled frantically at the cuffs, but to no avail. Everything holding him was solid.

"Sherlock, shhhh. Shh," John said as he ran his hands down Sherlock's legs to place a warning grip on the boy's ankles.

Sherlock's kicking stilled, but he was still pouting fretfully.

"You don't want me to have to lock up your feet too, do you?"

"Mmmmmmm," Sherlock complained, seeming to conciliate.

"Okay," John warily let go of his legs, patted his shin, "I'll be right back."

John unplugged the bottle warmer, and tugged his sleeve back to test the bottle's temperature on his wrist. He'd prepared gripe water according to instructions Sherlock had researched in advance, using fennel and caraway seeds pinched from Mrs. Hudson's spice rack at home.

Setting the bottle aside, John picked up a squeeze pouch of ready-made baby food and twisted the cap off. He took it back to the cot and reached easily over the ECG leads to offer the mush to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't take it right away, craning his neck to curiously peer at the pouch.

"C'mon," John coaxed him, "it's zucchini and banana."

Sherlock made an indecisive humming sound and stared up at Daddy searchingly, before finally wrapping his lips around the small plastic nozzle poking at them.

"That's it..." John smiled as he watched Sherlock suck at it much as he would his bottle.

The difference was that, with the mushy puréed food, Sherlock would often unlatch after each sip in order to work the food back with his tongue. This resulted in a licking and smacking motion that John found adorable. For some reason, Sherlock also instinctually blinked nearly every time his tongue poked out. John had noticed before that it usually happened when Little Sherlock encountered tart flavours.

When the zucchini and banana was about half gone, John squeezed the end of the pouch to make sure Sherlock could get to the last of it.

Starting to feel full, already used to baby-sized portions as he was, when it was all gone Sherlock cooed softly and rubbed his legs against the sheets in pleasure. He continued to lick at his lips until they didn't taste like veggies anymore.

"Good boy!" John beamed. It was always a relief to be able to get something resembling proper food into Sherlock without a fight.

An airy near-burp escaped Sherlock's lips, and John patted his stomach a few times to help things along.

John gave him the bottle next, musing to himself it was a good thing he'd already planned to give Sherlock gripe water; it would prevent gassiness later on as Sherlock's gut was reintroduced to semisolids after days of nothing but tea and peripheral nicotine.

Sherlock relaxed as he drank, but the beeping of the ECG distracted him from dozing off - which had partly been John's intention; he wanted to make sure Sherlock finished the entire bottle first. It wouldn't do to let Sherlock become dehydrated on top of already feeling crummy.

When Sherlock was done with his bottle, John turned off the ECG, removed the leads from his baby's chest (which Sherlock looked decidedly relieved for), and uncuffed Sherlock's wrists.

"There's a good boy." Tenderly, John removed the damp cloth and brushed the thick, curly fringe from Sherlock's forehead.

He coaxed a groggy, uncoordinated Sherlock into a sitting position on the edge of the mattress, holding him close so they were chest to chest. John rubbed and patted Sherlock's bare back, gently burping him. Sherlock slumped against Daddy gratefully, soaking up the attention.

Sherlock managed two burps, then John eased him back down. Sherlock's skin still felt hot. John decided against putting Sherlock's booties on for his nap; if he cooled down while he was asleep, John would simply cover him with the thin blanket folded over the foot of the cot. It was a cute blanket that brightened up the room just being where it was, covered in tiny pastel bunnies.

Sherlock started to doze off at last, but Daddy wasn't through checking him over.

Little Sherlock was startled awake by the sound of the tapes on his diaper being peeled off, then a draught licked him between the legs as Daddy opened the diaper.

Sherlock watched in wide-eyed bemusement as Daddy put on tight, white gloves and smeared some unusual-looking jelly onto the pointier end of a squarish plastic stick.

Daddy put the stick back down on an instrument tray and dipped two gloved fingers into the open pot of lubricating jelly beside it. Then Daddy pulled Sherlock's legs wider apart, reached between, and ran his fingers around Sherlock's hole. Daddy smeared the cold gel around, and then inside.

Sherlock made a short, confused noise as he felt Daddy's fingers go up inside him. Sherlock squirmed a bit as his anus twitched around Daddy's fingers. The whole process felt weird, but the part he liked the least was the temperature of the gel coating the outside of his sphincter.

Daddy's fingers moved around for a while, twisting and sliding about. Before Sherlock could decide if he liked the sensation or not, Daddy slowly eased his fingers out and picked up the plastic stick.

The stick entering Sherlock was smaller, but didn't feel as nice as Daddy's fingers. Sherlock considered the feeling, scrunching his nose.

Staring off into a corner, absorbing the stimulatory input, Sherlock distractedly mumbled, "Da... daaaadadadada," before stuffing part of a mitten in his mouth and sucking on it thoughtfully.

"That's got to stay in for a few minutes," Daddy replied, rubbing Sherlock's thigh with one hand and keeping the thermometer firmly seated with the other.

At length, the stick beeped, shrill and fast. Daddy slid it out of Sherlock's bum and peered at it.

Still slightly feverish, but not as bad as John feared.

Daddy took the gloves off and finished up like any normal diaper change, as Sherlock had wet the diaper within the past hour. John wiped Sherlock's bottom clean and taped him into a fresh diaper, crumpled the old one into the bin, and went to the sink to wash his hands.

Daddy puttered some more around the desk by the sink and said over his shoulder, "Okay, one last thing, and then you can go to sleep..."

He opened the vial they'd brought along and measured a portion of its contents into a small glass of water. Though John was sceptical about the concoction itself, he saw no reason not to give Sherlock his medicine a day early if it might really help him get better. Experiment or not, letting Sherlock spend an extra day sick in bed felt cruel and unusual. John would much rather have him well and in bed.

After a minute, Daddy approached the cot holding a medicine dropper full of well-diluted garlicky, herb-infused vinegar.

Sherlock saw it and mewled, looking panicky. Nothing coming out of a syringe dropper like that could possibly taste good.

He quickly turned his head aside when John tried to put the dropper to his mouth, refusing to open up for it.

Daddy tapped Sherlock's jaw to try and get him to face him, saying, "Come on, Sherlock, behave. I need to give you your medicine."

Sherlock looked at the dropper, scowled, and turned away again. _Nope_.

John hated to have to manhandle Sherlock when he was Little, but sometimes the baby was just too stubborn. John kept trying to get the dropper between Sherlock's lips until Sherlock blocked him with both felted pink mitts.

John heard a muffled moan that vaguely sounded like, "No medth'cin."

John's eyebrows shot up. Sherlock still sounded Little, but had been so deep into headspace up until a moment ago that he'd been incapable of using his words. He must _really_ not have wanted the medicine.

John tugged at Sherlock's chin one more time. "It's to help you feel better," he said. "So you won't be sick tomorrow too. Come on. One good swallow, and it'll be over."

"Mmnnn..." Sherlock turned away with his entire upper half, nearly rolling off the support wedge.

John sighed and wheedled, "Please? For Daddy?"

Sherlock stilled, then peered back at John over his shoulder, cautiously.

"Good boy," Daddy urged, "come on."

Grudgingly, Sherlock rolled onto his back and let Daddy cup the back of his head to keep him from jerking away. John didn't give Sherlock any time to reconsider, swiftly inserting the dropper the instant Sherlock opened his mouth.

Sherlock flinched with a lemon-sucking expression as Daddy emptied the medicine dropper on his tongue. The stuff tasted absolutely horrid. He tried to pull his head back, pressing into Daddy's cradling hand, and keened around the dropper.

"All of it," John warned, holding Sherlock until every last drop was squeezed out into Sherlock's mouth. He made sure he saw Sherlock swallow before he let go.

The complaining began as soon as the dropper was out. There was a lengthy string of agitated whining and grunting, punctuated by little "bleh" noises whenever Sherlock attempted to wipe the taste off his tongue with a mitten.

Daddy rolled his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. At least that was over. He kissed Sherlock on the boy's perspiring forehead and pulled up the side of the cot, locking it shut. He then wound up a music box he'd brought from home and let it play while he set about cleaning up the things they'd used.

Sherlock cooed when he recognised the bright, tinkling melody.

Just when John was thinking Sherlock was still awfully responsive for such an ill, exhausted baby, he turned to look and saw that Sherlock had at last succumbed to sleep.

His little one was drooling all over one pink mitten, breathing slow and deep.

Then, more than loud enough to be heard across the room, was the sound of Sherlock's stomach rumbling in acceptance of his recent meal.

It was one of Sherlock's more unusual bodily quirks, and it was difficult for John not to laugh every time it happened. John bit his lip to keep quiet, lest he wake the sleeping baby far too soon.

After everything was cleaned up, John hung up his white coat and flopped into a cushy recliner in the corner. (Sherlock had included it in the furnishings in the hope of one day being bottle-fed and rocked to sleep in it, which would likely happen tomorrow.)

A grin grew on his face as he watched his baby doze. Sherlock was so perfect. Even like this. Especially like this.

 

A few hours later, Sherlock's skin felt more of a normal temperature. Almost a bit cool around his feet, even, which was certainly an improvement. Whether it was due to getting rest or the smelly, garden-grown antibiotics, Sherlock's fever had broken. John spread the bunny blanket over Sherlock up to the waist.

Three and a half hours straight of sleep so far, and the chances of Sherlock sleeping through the next five were looking good too.

Pleased, John leaned back in the recliner and decided he'd earned a short nap himself. If Sherlock needed anything or cried out, he'd be right there when the little boy woke up.

The doctor drifted off to sleep thinking they'd have to do this again sometime, when Sherlock was feeling better.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments keep me going! <3


End file.
